


Honey, I'm Way Past Diplomacy

by midnightecho



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Batman References, Dark Agenda, Psychological Torture, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:24:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightecho/pseuds/midnightecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A slap in the face was always a satisfying way to wake a captive. It was even more satisfying when that captive was Dean Winchester.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>What if Abaddon had embraced her Cainian side more rather than campaigning for the queenship? Things could have ended very differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey, I'm Way Past Diplomacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlehollyleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/gifts).



> I'm dedicating this to you as a thank you for my spn cast signatures from jibcon, thank you very very much!! (Plus I know how much you love your characters hurt and traumatised)

A slap in the face was always a satisfying way to wake a captive. It was even more satisfying when that captive was Dean Winchester. 

The hunter had clearly been slapped many a time before as he simply looked mildly exasperated as he blinked his way into consciousness, slowly acknowledging the facts of his situation one by one. Firstly: he was tied up. Ropes bound his wrists behind the post he was propped up against, chafing the skin sore. Secondly: he was shirtless. This soon led to the realisation that he was at a loss for any method of freeing himself; no knives hidden up his sleeves to cut himself free with - no sleeves full stop - and the rope was way too tight to slip. He was bloody as well; he'd gone down with a fight, he suddenly recalled, and he could feel the aches of swelling bruises and the tightness of his skin where blood had begun to dry whenever he tried to move. And thirdly: someone was stood in front of him. 

As soon as he saw the heels, he knew who it was. Of course it was her. Of. Fucking. Course. 

"Good morning, sunshine."

Dean's eyes scanned up the torn fishnets to the smart black skirt and blazer that framed a bloodstained shirt, then further up to the bright red lipstick and heavy eyeshadow that accented a deep hatred for the man sat before her. Abaddon looked simply murderous. 

"I'd really thought we were past all this by now. Or have you just got a thing for people beat up and at your mercy?"

The knight of Hell crouched before him and smirked as she squidged his cheeks together in one hand. Dean, for some reason, didn't look amused. "Oh honey, you couldn't handle me if you tried."

Dean only glared defiantly back, twisting free of her grip. "So what's this all about, huh? Hostage to exchange for something you want? Bit out of your price range, so you thought you'd trade in Hell's Most Wanted?"

Abaddon snorted, so he took that as a no. 

"What then? Bait for Crowley? Still at this bloody civil war? Well I hate to be the one to tell ya, but he's not exactly the one for selfless rescues. Hell, the guy hates me, why would he even try?"

"Well I think that scribble on your arm might put the 'priceless' tag on your head."

Dean looked as though he were internally cursing himself. How had Abaddon found out about the Mark so quickly? How had she found them? _How?_

Short answer: she was better. At everything; than everything; for everything. _Better._

"But that's only part of the reason you're here."

"Oh yeah? And what the rest of it?"

"Most people call it revenge. I call it fun."

"Revenge? For what?"

Abaddon scoffed. "How about, oh I dunno... _chopping my fucking head off._ "

"Still hung up on that? Come on, man, you're alive, aren't ya?"

Abaddon's glare was fiery and cold. 

"Guess the flirting's over then," Dean mumbled. 

The demon swept down and hissed sharply in Dean's ear, every ounce of her detestation her expression held now dripping for her words. "Do you know what revenge consists of in my books, hunter? Not death; no, nothing so simple and freeing. My revenge consists of torture. Pure, unrelenting torture. You remember Hell, right? You may have started your training and seemed some twisted little expert when you came back to this realm, but believe me when I say you barely scratched the surface. You should see what a knight with millennia of experience can do when she's pissed off. And right now, _I'm pretty fucking pissed off."_ She stood once more. "I could drag you back onto that rack and tear you limb from limb repeatedly, burn you from this inside out, incise and deform, corrupt you til your screams ran dry time after time after time, strip you of your flesh and your blood and your damn humanity. Hell, I could make you my own little bitch if I wanted." She grinned at the thought. "But that's for another day. Today our method of torture will be somewhat different: _emotional."_

Dean's defiantly set expression and stomach dropped simultaneously.

And Abaddon relished that. 

Two lackies wheeled in old television sets, setting them up so Dean could see both screens clearly. 

"What the hell is this?" His voice cracked deliciously. She was going to enjoy this immensely. 

"I hear you're a fan of the Batman franchise. Tell me Dean, does this scenario look familiar to you?"

Dean looked lost. 

Then they turned on the TV sets. 

Through the hazy reception, the dread that had been building in Dean's gut manifested horribly as he made out a store room stacked as far back as the camera could see with barrels of gasoline. Tied to the one at the front was a rousing Sam Winchester. The other screen featured a similar setup starring Castiel. 

"Oh you fucking son of a bitch." Dean's voice was low and quiet as his eyes overflowed with hate. His jaw was clenched as he tried to block out the increasingly frantic calls for help and sounds of struggle crackling through the sets. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, then thrashed desperately, yelling wordlessly until he sounded hoarse. 

And Abaddon laughed. It started small but grew into a full maniacal cackle. "Oh yes, this is how to do it!" she announced triumphantly. "Those standard torturers down below often forget how rewarding emotional manipulation can be." She took a moment for another indulgent grin before putting her hands on her knees and bending towards Dean. "So you get the idea, right? You have to choose one of them to save... or they both go up in flames."

Dean strained against his bindings with extraordinary vigour, a deep-set determination to tear the knight of Hell apart making him shake, but to no avail. 

"Ah-ah, settle down; without that precious Blade, you won't be powering up. You'll make a decision. Oh, look at their little puppydog eyes. Now I'm gonna count to three. One."

"You can't make me choose. Not this." 

Abaddon smiled. Dean grimaced against the pain tearing through him. 

"Two."

 _"No!"_ His voice broke as he yelled responses to the calls of his family, desperate to reassure them, tell them he was coming for them, that everything would be alright even though they couldn't hear him. Tears streamed as he thrashed and screamed, straining to get closer to them. But there was nothing he could do. There never was. 

Abaddon's grin spread to a satiated and wonderfully unabated malice. 

_"Three."_


End file.
